


entheogenesis

by hardlyhurtmenow



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bondage, F/M, Humiliation, Immobility, Living Statue - Freeform, Multi, Sex Magic, Situational Humiliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 01:21:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5848447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlyhurtmenow/pseuds/hardlyhurtmenow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trevelyan had expected a trap.  Just not this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	entheogenesis

**Author's Note:**

> For [this](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/14614.html?thread=57117718#t57117718) prompt on the dragon age kink meme.

The scene that greets Méline Trevelyan when her "host" flings wide the door to his dining hall shocks her almost beyond description. She feels herself stiffen for a long moment before she forces herself to relax into the hand on her arm. She wants to demand an explanation, but she doesn't dare. For one, Lord Denethos already likely sees right through her. For another, Josephine will kill her if she ruins this.

So instead, Méline fakes a flirtatious chuckle that she covers with one hand pressed lightly over her mouth, flickering a glance back up at Lord Denethos. Her voice and her eyes, she knows, are the most attractive things about her, and she's here to prime his pump, so to speak — still, she can't bring herself to be overly forward, so after that swift look back to him, she turns back to the dining hall. 

The first thing that catches her attention is how _soft_ the whole room looks. Tapestries woven of rich blue and pale white line the walls, their wavy patterns seeming almost to swim before her eyes. Thick carpets, low couches, and scores of pillows cover the marble floors, and more than dozen people, men and women both, all lie stretched out on them. There isn't a spot in the room without some sort of plush-looking cloth, and there's scarce a place to sit or lie down that doesn't sport someone with their clothes half-off.

"The festivities for the night have already begun, as you can see," Lord Denethos says. He smiles broadly at her, and she flashes a quick smile back up at him.

Be polite, Josephine had said. Pretend you know nothing, pretend to soften and learn to enjoy his Tevinter habits, and remember that a full company of Inquisition soldiers will be there within the week. Cullen and Leliana had been more prosaic, warning her to ignore what soldiers Lord Denethos kept in his halls, to try to keep her wits about her, and above all, to remember that if she didn't send a message by morning, members of her Inner Circle would move on the castle, and could be there in as little as three days, if they killed horses beneath them.

The second thing she notices about the room, apart from all the lazy people and their undress, is that it's lit with magic. Everywhere she looks, she sees motes of white and blue light suspended in the air or runes alive with glowing blue lyrium.

Denethos squeezes her arm, very gently, and leans in close to press his words against the shell of her ear: "If you would remove your shoes, Your Worship."

Méline doesn't have to pretend to shiver. It comes naturally as his soft mouth meets her skin, breath light puffs that cause tension to twine low in her stomach. She spends a moment annoyed at herself, but she bends and removes the dancing slippers she'd wornx, lined with tiny seedpearls. The anklets — woven gold chains with tiny bells — she leaves on, and as they wind their way through the room, she hears their faint chime with every movement.

Conversation stops when they make their way to the head table, or what passes for it. Méline looks up, and sees two incensors hanging low above it, swaying gently. Sweet-smelling blue smoke drifts from them, though there's a faint metallic undercurrent to it. Opium, she's sure, but she's unsure of what the metal smell might be. It makes the room seem to weave and spin, and she could swear she hears a thin, high tone.

She's still looking up at the incensors when Denethos begins helping her, quite neatly and politely, down to one of the groups of pillows. She settles herself so that her legs are pulled beneath her and to the side, and then looks at their company.

A different kind of shiver, one she has to repress, rolls through her when she realizes they're all men. She's not afraid of men, usually, but now that she's walked alone and friendless into a stranger's castle, she feels faintly hunted.

Méline reminds herself of all the things her advisors have told her, then arranges her face into a pleasant expression.

Denethos seats himself next to her. Next to his more stout companions, he seems thin, almost frail. His eyes are a greenish gray, and for a moment she thinks he's studying her as much as she's studying him.

"Inquisitor Trevelyan, please, allow me to introduce my companions." A hint of a smile, quirking his mouth into a wry crook. "The only one worth notice is Alexandros," he says, and gestures to indicate a brown-eyed man with features like the statues of Havard that litter Emprise du Lion. The rest grumble, but nobody makes a real effort to gainsay him. Perhaps Alexandros is the only one with any position.

For his part, Alexandros smiles at her. His eyes crinkle, and one of his cheeks dimples. It looks entirely genuine, she realizes, and is surprised. His voice is even and happy as he says, "A pleasure to meet you, Inquisitor. Has Denethos showed you his gallery yet?"

"Of course not! I thought I'd get some wine into her, first. It does take southerners a few cups to _really_ appreciate," Denethos says with a scoff. He leans forward as he speaks, pouring her a fresh glass from the decanter on the table.

Of course he answered for her. She covers a twitch of annoyance and says, after accepting the glass with a murmur of thanks, "I do look forward to seeing Lord Denethos's gallery. I'm told he has the most exquisitely _unique_ collection of art and iconography in Orlais." 

Méline offers him a polite smile and takes a cautious few sips of Denethos's wine. It's a good vintage, full-bodied and a touch sweet, with a crisp feel in her mouth that she's more used to in white wines than red. No wonder Dorian has been constantly complaining about the wine down here.

She sets the glass down and then has to blink, frowning. Her lips are tingling, and so is her tongue. The pins-and-needles feeling travels from her tongue inside her throat, and then her cheeks are abuzz. It's such a bizarre tickling feeling that it forces her to giggle. The feeling of her throat moving as she laughs is made completely foreign.

And then her laughter stops. Méline wants to turn to Denethos and ask, wants to say that something's wrong. And yet she can't open her mouth. She cannot turn her head. She can't even move her eyes.

Denethos brushes a thumb along her jaw. She wants to shake in revulsion, wants to shrug him away. She stays still, and he says, in a tone that's almost reverent, "I've been waiting for an hour for the spells to settle in, Méline. You don't mind that I call you by name, do you?"

Yes, she wants to tell him. Of course I mind. But she remains silent and motionless.

"Can you smile for me, Méline?"

She can't, and she wouldn't if she could. She tries to frown. Her face does not respond.

But then his thumb and fingers press into her cheeks, swiping across her lips, shaping. Magic whispers along her skin, _twists_ , and she feels her mouth curve into something that must look welcoming and happy. Every bit as happy as Alexandros had looked.

These people here, are they all his victims? She would gaze around the room in horrified wonder, but she can only see Alexandros, and very faintly at the edges of her eyes, Denethos.

"Shall we have some fun before you start making your... art, Denethos?" It's the voice of one of the others who sit with them, one of the men Denethos hadn't introduced. He sounds faintly distasteful as he says the word 'art,' and Méline can't help wondering why.

"Just don't mark her skin," their host replies. He sounds bored. How can this bore him? She's completely helpless, and he's bored at the thought of simply passing her around like a shared bottle of wine?

The nameless man slides forward and presses his hand against the sides of her face. Once again, the magic twists, her skin buzzes, and then her mouth pops open, lips rounded in a little 'o.' Her face feels strange, and she realizes her cheeks have hollowed out.

It's an obscene way to hold her face. Revulsion roils in her stomach, and she longs to turn away, to moderate her expression.

Alexandros looks to her right — she assumes to Denethos — and then, smiling, leans toward her. He reaches for her, and his fingers pass from her view. The soft whisper of cloth, as he unfastens the buttons on the side of her dress, soon follows. Warm, sweet-scented air dances along newly-revealed skin as he slowly parts the fabric. Beside her, somebody else moves her hands and arms, unpinning the dress's neckline from its toga-like position on her shoulders. It's quick work, especially since she can't resist, and soon she's sitting with her legs pulled under her skirts, her mouth open, and with the top of her dress tugged away.

Please, she wants to say. Please leave me the breast band. 

But someone's hands move behind her — Denethos? The man on her left? She has no idea — and the band falls away, leaving her bared to the waist.

And then Alexandros leans forward again. He comes perilously close to straddling her as he draws near. His smile is still so pleasant, so polite, as if he has no idea that she wants none of this. He hooks his thumb into the waist of her dress and begins to pull it away. When the way she's sitting becomes an issue, he simply rearranges her, pulling her legs out straight. One of the other men lifts her hips off the ground, and soon the dress slides away. Her panties follow almost immediately.

Alexandros tosses both pieces of fabric aside. She doesn't see where they fall.

Méline feels her skin flush in humiliation at her nakedness, at the wantonness of the position.

"Look at those eyes," says another of the nameless men. She feels hands at her arm and waist, then someone begins to tug. Helpless against the spell, she rises until she is standing with her knees straight. The world seems to change slowly as her head is forced upward, more of the room visible.

The people littered on couches and cushions can't possibly be slaves to this magic. They move freely, laughing and talking. She strains herself to turn her head, to move her gaze to the left or right. But her body doesn't respond at all.

A man's warm, callused grasp against her ankle and her knee startles her enough to make her twitch. He lets out a grunt of surprised annoyance, and snaps, "Denethos!"

"The spell detaches her will from her form, Aurelian," Denethos replies, sounding once again bored. "If I removed the body's involuntary motions, she would stop breathing, and I don't think any of us wants that." There's an edge to the second half of what he says, and if she could, Méline would close her eyes. 

This can't be happening. It's simply a nightmare. If she could close her eyes, she could wake up.

The hands return to her ankle and her knee. They lift, they pull, and her body obeys, leg bending so that she stands with one foot on the low table, and one foot on the ground.

"Do you not wish to inspect your newest model, Denethos?" Aurelian's voice asks.

"The light is insufficient. I'll have one of the soldiers Livius loaned me carry her to the gallery."

Hands slide over her skin, roughened fingers sliding along her thighs and back. Someone steps up close behind her — she can feel the heat he gives off — and trails his hands from her hipbones up, over her flat stomach and her ribcage. He cups her breasts, squeezing gently.

"Could be larger," says a different man's voice. "But still young and firm." He traces his thumb over one of her nipples, circling and rubbing, and her body responds. As her nipple hardens, he begins to squeeze and pinch it. It sends swift, short shocks of pain through her, but the pain seems to jolt along her spine, coiling something tense low in her belly. She feels a single beat of her pulse between her thighs.

At her enjoyment of this treatment, her humiliation is complete. Someone grabs her by the chin and forces her to face the door, no matter that she wishes to hang her head.

One of Denethos's companions bends to press his mouth against her breast. The spell tightens its hold, preventing her from twitching again, keeps her from trying to twist away. He places opened-mouthed kisses along her skin, then wraps his lips to suckle her. The pain is sharp and hot, and yet her body answers it with pleasure.

And then a man's fingers make their way to the inside of her thigh, tracing upward until he's parting her, pressing his fingertip to the nub that controls her pleasure.

No, she wants to say. Stop.

"Lusacan's own Night," one of the other men breathes. "She's slick as a stream below."

That is her only warning before he slides two fingers into her, stretching her around him. He presses what must be his thumb against her clit, drawing sweeping circles around it, before he pushes a third finger within her.

She exhales a wheezy breath through her opened mouth.

He begins to curl his fingers, even as the damnable circling over her clit continues. Pleasure coils through her, and she despises every moment of it. Slowly, he withdraws his fingers before pushing them back in, out and then back in, out and in, never letting up the teasing of her clit. The feelings build low in the pit of her stomach, her pulse pounding between her thighs in a twinge she can't help but resent. It all stacks up within her, pleasure atop pleasure atop the burn of shame, the noises wet, as slick as he said.

And then, with one swipe of his thumb against her clit, it's too much. The stack topples; the tightness bursts.

Though she clenches and relaxes within, she is otherwise silent and motionless as she climaxes.

It's — different. She had eschewed the company of others in the Circle because she was no good at hushing herself, always gasping and sighing. Now, she can do neither of those, and instead must ride out the pleasure, even as she focuses on it.

Méline's cheeks warm with the shame of it all. To be stripped, then posed, then played with, and to have her body betray her in this fashion —

Tears prick her eyes, stinging. She can't even lift her hand to wipe them away.

Denethos heaves the heaviest, most put upon sigh she's ever heard. It's worse than Blackwall or Dorian when they think she's being stupid, worse than Cullen being asked to give orders he disagrees with.

"If you're quite finished with my new model?" Denethos asks. "We have art to make."

Assorted grumbling. Méline focuses on the door, rather than trying to hear the words of men who want to find new ways to degrade her. She's almost eager for Denethos to find some way to spirit her out of this debauched hall, if only because it will take her out of the reach of these men.

It's as easy for him as snapping his fingers. She hears the soft, sharp sound and tries, instinctively, to turn. Naturally, her body doesn't cooperate.

Denethos's voice says, "Matthias. Kindly carry the Inquisitor and follow me."

The spell that has been holding her rigid relaxes, and Méline begins to slump, as if boneless, to the floor. Gauntleted hands catch her before she can fall, and then she's tucked against a breast plate emblazoned with an all too familiar crest. Matthias, it would seem, is a templar.

Her head lolls, and as her eyes roll in her head, she catches a glimpse of his face. There's no mistaking the red glints in his skin.

But then, as if loss of the spell's support has driven her a little mad, the world spins and reels before her, and she stops trying to make sense of it.

* * *

Méline wakens in a well-lit room, with one entire wall covered in mirrors. Windows all along the far wall allow moon and starlight in, but the room is brighter than that. As the world ceases its spin, she sees in the mirror that in this room, Denethos has copied the trick of using magic to create white light, only bigger and brighter.

She's standing. The spell is keeping her upright again. Méline wants to curse, to cry, but she does neither of these things. 

Alexandros turns her away from the mirror, until she faces Denethos. He has a rag in his hands, and he reaches out to wipe it gently along her face. He focuses most of all on her eyes, and she realizes that he is wiping away the layer of kohl she applied in her guest quarters, before she came down to join her host for dinner.

"Are you done with those unsightly tears, my dear? I can't have them ruining all the work I'm about to do."

She stares. She has no choice but to stare.

Alexandros "helps" her into a low stool. He folds her knees and tucks her ankles neatly together. That he would bother strikes her as odd; they've made her into a plaything. Why not let her sit carelessly as a dropped doll?

Apparently, because she's a doll presently in use.

Denethos wields a kohl stick with ease, as if he's done it a thousand times. He pulls at the corners of her eyes, shutting them and creating a tiny canvas, and then he traces the kohl stick along the very edges of her eyelids, once and again. She cannot see herself, but she knows the effect must be thick. He then turns and retrieves a brush from a jar of paint she cannot see into. The end of the brush looks faintly golden, and he applies it to her eyelids, above the kohl marks. He applies the contents of a second brush just below her browline, then, with a thoughtful look, dots it beneath her eyes.

He finishes with a brush of carmine, though she's not sure what powder he used to make it. He shows her the inside of this paint pot, and it looks like the darkest, shiniest carmine she's ever seen. The red is deep and rich, more the color of wine than the bright reds she tries to avoid, to soften on her mouth.

He says nothing to her as he waits for his work to dry. Instead, he chats idly with Alexandros, in terms she doesn't understand. It seems to be some blend of Orlesian — which she speaks — and Tevene, which she doesn't.

At length, he nods, and then swoops in for one final pass of his gold-tipped brush. This, he uses to paint golden dots on her lower lip.

And then he turns her in the stool until she's facing the mirror again, and Méline wants to gasp, or cry, or demand that he give her the rag and let clean this insanity off her face. She doesn't look whorish, precisely — or if she does, it's a very peculiar kind of whore. He's painted her in black and gold, with only a single red accent that he's then gone and smeared with more gold anyway, and the paint on her eyes and lips is shiny, metallic. The shiny gold seems to accentuate both the honeyed darkness of her skin and her pale blue eyes, acting as a counter-point for how glassy they look.

It's a look not so much primitive as primal. Powerful, yes, but in a heathen way. She couldn't pass as an Orlesian noble, but she might pass as a very strange Rivaini, or more likely yet, as one of the temple prostitutes favored in the earliest days of the Tevinter Imperium, before the silence of the Old Gods and the rise of the Darkspawn.

"We will make such beautiful art," Denethos says, and he passes his hand along her hair. To Alexandros, over her head, he says, "Shave the rest of her and brush her hair. I have jewels to choose."

And then he's gone, passing out of her view and likely out of the room, because of _course_ he has jewelry to select. He can't just turn her into a doll and paint her face gold — he has to bedeck her in it, as well.

In the mirror, she sees Matthias, with his red eyes and the tiny stitches of red crystal in his skin. His gaze is fixed on her, and his mouth has curled into an expression that mixes lust and hatred.

She's grateful when Alexandros turns her to comply with Denethos's order. He seems perfectly happy with this menial task, though, and that leaves her almost as wary as Matthias does. 

Alexandros raises her arms, spreading oil beneath them, and then scrapes a razor along her skin. This process, he repeats at length, until she wants to snatch the razor up from his hands. The noise alone is enough to drive her mad, and she's sure she'll itch when her hair grows back in, not that she'd ever admit that out loud. Worse still, he parts her thighs almost past her ability to bear it and takes his oils and his razor — which he whets anew — to the short, curly hair that shields her.

Tears prick her eyes again, but this time, they don't fall. She spares a moment to wonder if the spell has forbidden her to cry because Denethos doesn't want her to, or if she's better at mastering her emotional upset.

Denethos takes his time selecting jewelry. By the time he returns, Alexandros has cleaned the oil from her skin and dabbed a new scented oil at her wrists, her thighs, and between her breasts. Indeed, as Denethos's footsteps enter the room, Alexandros is passing a comb through the thick black strands of her hair, sliding it smoothly from the crown of her head all the way to the center of her back.

The first of the jewels that Denethos has chosen is a thick golden necklace. Truly, it's a slave collar made of gold chains, most of them meeting at her throat before spreading new chains down over her shoulders in what might almost be a cape, were it solid. The necklace is so heavy that she would have difficulty holding her head up, if not for his magic. Next, he slides bangles upon both her wrists, and covers her fingers in gold bands.

She thinks that he has finished when he places a golden crown upon her head. The crown is made of intertwined horns, at least four of them, all of them heavy and golden. If she had wondered how she was to bear the collar, she truly has no idea how to bear up under the weight of the crown.

The actual last is jewelry she has no means of wearing: a pair of thick golden loops, with chains trailing.

Denethos hefts one of her breasts in his hand, rubbing at her with his thumb until her body responds, and she has a split second to think: oh, Maker, no. And then he slides a needle into her hardened nipple.

Tears sting her eyes at the fire that spreads through her breast, sharp and insistent, pounding in time to her pulse. He does the second breast in a similarly swift stroke, and the tears threaten to fall.

Alexandros leans forward and carefully dabs her eyes with a cloth.

Denethos presses the hoops into the holes he has just pierced into her, then mutters something. She feels magic twist and flare, answering his call, and receives the impression that the rings have fused together. Worst of all, though, her breasts look…different, with the rings in. Her nipples are puffy and inflamed, painful, but the difference is more than that.

"A much nicer size, do you not agree, Inquisitor?"

Why he bothers asking her questions he knows she can't answer, she has no idea. And then she realizes just what he has asked her, and he swivels her in the stool to look at herself again.

Her breasts are definitely larger. Not by much, not noticeable at first glance. But still: they look plumper, riper. A side effect of the spell on the rings, she would assume, and she is caught between despising this intrusion, this invasion, and admitting that, though it was not his right, he has made an improvement.

No. She'll unfasten those rings and take them out at the first opportunity.

Alexandros steps forward, and with a whisper, casts a pair of creation spells. The swelling, the redness, the pain, all ease, though slowly.

"And now, Inquisitor, you are ready," Denethos says with a smile.


End file.
